


Sharp

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Card Games, Established Relationship, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-03-30 07:25:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3928027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'You were bluffing,' Musashi announces, gathering up the scattered cards from the width of the table. When he looks up Hiruma is glaring at him, his mouth turned down around a grimace of frustration and with his too-sharp knees drawn up in front of him so he’s more standing on the edge of his chair than sitting in it." Hiruma loses at poker and gets what he wants anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharp

“Mother _fucker_.”

Musashi’s not surprised by the expletive grating harsh on Hiruma’s tongue. He’s been pretty sure of his victory for a while now, well before he spread his hand out across the table; the curse, and the flung cards that accompany it, might as well be a “Good game” on someone else’s lips.

“You were bluffing,” Musashi announces, gathering up the scattered cards from the width of the table. When he looks up Hiruma is glaring at him, his mouth turned down around a grimace of frustration and with his too-sharp knees drawn up in front of him so he’s more standing on the edge of his chair than sitting in it.

“You aren’t supposed to  _know_  I’m bluffing,” Hiruma snaps, reaches out to grab Musashi’s open soda and drink from it himself. Musashi watches the movement with resignation, doesn’t bother making the futile attempt to stop the action.

“I always know when you’re bluffing,” he says instead, watching the line Hiruma makes of his neck when he tilts his head back to drain the last of the liquid from the can. He swallows in a smooth motion, more classically graceful by far than his usual knife-edged motion, and then he sets the can down with a snap and Musashi realizes he’s staring.

“How do you know?” Hiruma asks. He shifts his weight back, sits in his chair properly so he can swing a leg out and kick not-gently against Musashi’s shin. It’ll leave a bruise, Musashi is sure, another dark mark to join the dozens of other patterns of Hiruma-brand affection printed on his skin.

He doesn’t mind another addition.

“Dunno,” he says now, looking back down as he stacks the cards back into a complete deck, reaches out to set them at the edge of the table. “Just do.”

“Thanks,” Hiruma drawls, sarcasm lacing the sharp edges of his voice poisonous. He retrieves his foot, swings himself up out of his chair; when he stretches his shirt rides up by an inch, lets Musashi see the cutting-edge clarity of his hipbones. “That’s extremely fucking helpful.”

Musashi doesn’t answer. He can’t put it into words, anyway, the vague wrongness when Hiruma’s actively trying to mislead him; it’s something in the shadow of his eyes, the way they go shallow and weirdly flat instead of dangerously endless. It’s the same look he carried for the months apart, when they were distanced by something far worse than a physical gap; Musashi is grateful, in some quiet, unspoken part of his mind, that bluffing in poker is the only place he sees that expression now.

He’s grateful, too, that Hiruma has never suffered from self-consciousness or anything like it. He’s half out of his jeans by the time Musashi pivots in his chair, leans forward to rest his arms on his knees so he can watch the other’s movements. They’re not graceful in the classic sense of the word, just brutally efficient, a hop and a kick to knock the weight of denim off angular ankles and a weird tipping point of balance as Hiruma peels his socks off to join the discarded pants. He doesn’t bother with getting rid of his shirt or boxers, just crawls up onto the hotel-soft of the bed and sprawls across the sheets, his hair a shock of pale gold against the dark of the blankets.

Then he turns his head, enough that Musashi can see the light catch on one eye and shadow out the thick dark of Hiruma’s eyelashes, and Hiruma’s grates “You coming?” like it’s the follow-up to a nonexistent invitation.

“Yeah,” Musashi says. He braces at the table, pushes himself up out of his chair to cross the few feet to the bed. Hiruma doesn’t look away -- Musashi isn’t even sure he blinks -- just keeps gazing at him, the intensity enough to make his expression a stare if Musashi weren’t so accustomed to this all-in focus. His shirt is sliding up his back, enough to show off the shadows collecting in the curve of his spine, and Musashi reaches out to dip his fingers into the darkness, to push up the smooth line with rough fingers.

Hiruma doesn’t protest. When Musashi looks back at him he’s still watching, what Musashi can see of the other’s expression still unreadable from the angle of his head, but he arches his shoulders like a cat, pushing the edge of shoulderblades up under Musashi’s touch like he’s trying to draw blood with the motion. Musashi shifts his weight, braces at the cliff-edge angle along Hiruma’s back so he can lean in closer; when his lips press against an individual vertebrae he can feel Hiruma’s laugh cutting right through his calm.

“Tenderness doesn’t suit you, old man.” Musashi barely has time to pull back before Hiruma turns over, pulling the bones of his back away from the other’s touch and reaching down to push his fingers in under the edge of his boxers. His knees come up, a momentary wall between them, and Musashi leans back on his heels while Hiruma rocks back enough to twist his boxers off his hips and down his legs. That’s a rough movement too -- he almost kicks Musashi’s shoulder as he stretches back out over the bed, less another piece of clothing -- but Musashi doesn’t flinch back. He reaches instead, pushes against the bottom of Hiruma’s rumpled-up t-shirt, and Hiruma lifts his arms in silent encouragement while he keeps talking.

“You’d better not be getting soft in your old age.” The shirt comes off, Hiruma shaking his head to knock his hair back into place as the fabric falls to the floor, and he’s moving before Musashi has decided where to start, sitting up and swinging over the gap between them without a flicker of uncertainty in his movements. Musashi doesn’t even have time to take in the shape of Hiruma’s skin in front of him, the frame no less familiar for the months it’s been untouchable, before it’s pressed against him, skinny fingers scraping against the back of his neck and wiry legs wrapping around his waist.

“I’m not,” he says, turning his head up to the shadow-promise of Hiruma’s eyes and the sharp edge of his smile.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Hiruma purrs, all tangled hair and threatening eyes, and then his mouth is against Musashi’s and there’s no more talking for a while. It takes all Musashi’s attention just to hold his own with Hiruma, to remember simple things like breathing and the beat of his heart under the onslaught of Hiruma’s mouth. There are teeth at his lip, a tongue sliding slick and candy-sweet against his mouth, and when there’s a pull at his hair his balance goes, sends him sprawling to the mattress with Hiruma still wrapped around him like a second shirt. There’s nothing but edges when he reaches out, bones dragging under skin as Hiruma shifts his weight back to straddle Musashi’s hips, until he could be touching the framework of ribs or the clean line of a hip or a sweeping curve of collarbone. It doesn’t make much difference; Hiruma is hot like the backlash from an explosion, the angles of his body there wherever Musashi reaches, and there’s something satisfying about that, to be able to reach and have instead of losing his grip before he’s touched down.

Hiruma shifts, rocks his weight back so he presses against Musashi’s hold; it’s his waist under the reaching fingers, the shift of breath when he inhales a give away for where Musashi’s hand has landed. His smile cuts through the shadow, a flash of white-hot promise at his lips, and there’s a palm at Musashi’s chest, shoving hard to push Hiruma up over his knees. Musashi watches the hand come up to drag across the damp of Hiruma’s mouth, the motion of pale wrist obscuring the edge of his expression, and something sharp digs against the inside of his chest, an aching pressure far heavier than Hiruma pushing against him that is as bruise-ache satisfying as it is painful.

“What’s the matter?” Hiruma asks, smokey eyelashes lowering into something like suspicion over his eyes. Musashi blinks, realizes he’s been staring, realizes he doesn’t know what expression he’s wearing, shakes his head.

“Nothing.” It’s not anything, not anymore; the hurt he’s feeling is past-tense, a pain he spent so long avoiding it’s only now, when it’s useless to even think of it, that the emotion is surging up to remind him of what he didn’t have for so long.

“Whatever,” Hiruma says, waving a hand through the air like he’s brushing smoke aside. “You gonna hand me the lube or are we just gonna sit here all night?”

“Yeah,” Musashi says, a flatline non-response to the rhetorical question, braces his hand at Hiruma’s hip to hold him steady while he twists and reaches for the bottle at the bedside table. Hiruma doesn’t need the support -- he moves as easily as Musashi, giving way to the other’s movement and melding to it as easily as breathing -- but it gives Musashi the faint friction of skin at his palm, the heat of Hiruma’s body against him as a reminder of what he has, now. He offers the bottle wordlessly for the snatching motion of Hiruma’s fingers, catches at the other’s hips to hitch him an inch forward, better positioned over Musashi’s body while Hiruma gets his fingers wet and slick and shiny.

“Shouldn’t you at least take your jeans off?” Hiruma demands as Musashi rocks up against him, fitting the heat of his cock in under Hiruma’s through the barrier of the denim. Protest notwithstanding, Hiruma tips himself forward as he tosses the bottle aside, the motion grinding his weight down against Musashi’s jeans. It feels good, the heat and the friction riding along the line of his zipper, and Musashi wants to shut his eyes to the flare of satisfaction, would except that he can see Hiruma if he keeps them open, the razor-edge of his smile and the impossible ashy shadow of his lashes.

“You’re making me do all the work,” Hiruma says, the consonants biting into edges on his tongue, and then he shuts his eyes and Musashi can see distraction flicker over his features. He doesn’t need to see what Hiruma is doing with his fingers -- he knows the outline of the action, doesn’t need the details to read the familiar shape of the other’s reaction, and it’s the reaction that’s most important anyway, the sudden softness that crests over his forehead and smoothes his lips into a parted hiss of reaction. Hiruma’s leaning forward, resting more of his weight against Musashi’s chest, and Musashi is going harder with every half-felt motion of Hiruma’s body, the involuntary shift of his legs and the cut-off gasp of his breathing as he moves.

“I could take over,” he offers, but he doesn’t move his hands; he tightens his grip instead, fits his fingers in to press hard at Hiruma’s hips, and Hiruma laughs the suggestion off as Musashi knew he would.

“Fuck no.” Another movement, more deliberate this time, Hiruma grinding himself in hard against Musashi’s stomach with an exhale hard in his throat. “You’re always too slow, I spend all my time waiting for you.”

“Okay,” Musashi allows, lets the double meaning flutter unshaped between them. Hiruma ducks his head down, presses the sharp edges of his teeth in against Musashi’s shoulder like he’s trying to breathe in the texture of the other’s shirt, and Musashi works one hand free, fits his fingers down between his shirt and Hiruma’s cock until he can curl his fingers into a halfway hold to offer more friction than just the fabric of his t-shirt.

Hiruma doesn’t offer thanks. But he does take a deep inhale, long and strained, and when he moves again it’s more deliberate, fitting the movement of his own fingers to the rocking movement of his hips up against Musashi’s hand, and they fall into a rhythm of friction pulled around the promise of more, expectation hot as reality in the gap between them.

Hiruma moves first, as Hiruma always moves first, twists back and away before Musashi has yet had time to grow anxious or impatient. The lack of his warmth feels like active cold gusting over Musashi’s skin, sticks into a low groan of loss in his throat, and then Hiruma is grinning down at him and his smile is fire enough to more than compensate.

“You ready yet?” His hand lands at the bed, slippery fingers spread wide to brace himself, and when he reaches to close his hand around his cock Musashi’s eyes drop to track the motion, the rough familiar grace of bony fingers curling into a hold. Musashi didn’t need the encouragement but it serves as such anyway, watching Hiruma’s fingers stroke up rushed and impatient over the flushed resistance of his cock, and when he opens his mouth it’s a groan of want that spills over his lips.

Hiruma’s laugh is bright, sparkling like glass shards and explosive as fireworks, and he’s tipping himself back farther, settling his weight back over Musashi’s legs so he can reach out to pull at the fly of the other’s dark jeans. There’s no hesitation in the movement of his hand; if anything he’s moving faster, jerking himself quicker as he goes, until by the time Musashi’s zipper is down and Hiruma’s fingers are dragging his clothes down the blond is breathing hard, has his head tilted down like he’s imitating self-consciousness. It’s strange to see the reaction so absent in Hiruma’s usual interactions, tightens Musashi’s chest with another one of those retrospective pangs, like a burst of half-lost nostalgia hitting with the force of a wave.

He reaches out instead of speaking. His throat is tight with heat and hurt and desire in equal parts, and it’s easier to touch than to speak. Hiruma is moving in closer, rocking up on his knees and shifting forward the inches he needs, until Musashi’s hold at his hip is more to steady him than to pull. Then he looks down, all the darkness of his eyelashes falling low over the bright of his eyes, and Musashi watches his face rather than his hips, the parted lips of anticipation while Hiruma braces himself so he can lower himself down onto Musashi’s cock. There’s a weirdly human gentleness when Hiruma isn’t thinking about it, when his attention is given over to something other than communication, and when Musashi lets his breath rush out in a groan it comes a moment before the hot friction of Hiruma easing down onto him. Hiruma’s eyelashes shift, his mouth twists in something between pain and pleasure, and Musashi moves, finally, pulls at Hiruma’s hips and rocks himself up and slides into the slick-stretched heat of Hiruma’s body.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Hiruma gasps, sounding like the word is being forced out of him, and Musashi takes a long inhale, fills his lungs like he’s bracing himself as Hiruma presses a hand to his chest to rock his weight up. “Damnit, old man, you don’t even give me a chance to adjust.”

“I thought I was making you wait,” Musashi says, a smile starting to catch at the corner of his mouth in spite of himself. Hiruma hisses, baring his teeth in what looks like a threat and sounds like one of his laughs, and Musashi lets a hand go so he can reach out and close his fingers around Hiruma’s cock instead. Hiruma groans when he jerks his hand up, his chin tilting down to cast his gaze into shadow, and when he moves again it’s to lean forward, pinning Musashi’s hand between them and catching his teeth at Musashi’s lip. There’s pain, a tear of force at delicate skin, and Musashi can feel blood hot at his tongue, spilling slick and iron-bitter into his mouth. But Hiruma is purring, licking the color off Musashi’s mouth, and when he moves the surge of friction is more than enough to drown out the dull throb of pain from the bite. It’s easier to move, for Musashi to stroke his hand up over the heat of Hiruma’s cock to drag another vibrating noise of appreciation at his mouth, to urge Hiruma to move his hips into another slow thrust.

They don’t need to speak to find a rhythm. This is familiar too, from years previous and weeks recent, the jerky almost-pattern of Hiruma’s movement sparking out into Musashi’s blood while Musashi’s fingers slide in easy motion up over the blond’s cock. Hiruma falls back from his mouth, presses his head hard at Musashi’s shoulder like he’s trying to push the other down through the mattress, and Musashi is left to gaze unseeing at the ceiling, too caught by the heat of Hiruma moving around him and sliding slick under his fingers to pay attention to what he’s seeing. Even when Hiruma’s breathing stutters into a faster pace and he braces his fingers bruising at Musashi’s shoulder as he speeds his motion, Musashi doesn’t change the rhythm of his strokes, just keeps the same steady pattern he fell into originally.

“Fuck,” Hiruma says into his shirt. “Fuck you,  _fuck_  you,” but there’s no anger to the words, just raw heat tearing up his throat until Musashi half-expects his shirt to catch alight under the sound. “ _Fuck_ ,” and he jerks, a quick convulsive movement before he comes sticky and burning across Musashi’s fingers and the front of his shirt. His fingers dig in tighter, enough to maybe draw blood, his breathing is loud in Musashi’s ear; Musashi can feel the ripples of pleasure running through him, each shuddering wave drawing almost painfully tight around him. He doesn’t stop moving -- he knows better than that -- just keeps sliding his fingers up to draw the last jolts of satisfaction out of Hiruma’s body and rocking his hips up in pursuit of his own.

Finally Hiruma takes an inhale, deep and slow and almost-relaxed, or what passes for relaxation for him, and tips his weight back, pushes Musashi’s sticky hand away as he settles his balance back over the other’s hips. With those dark-hot eyes fixed on him Musashi can feel the warmth in his blood tighten into promise, anticipation forming itself out of general appreciation, and Hiruma’s grin says he can see it too, in Musashi’s expression maybe, or maybe from the tension climbing in his body. Hiruma’s hand presses in at Musashi’s chest, he shifts himself up, and Musashi watches the edge of Hiruma’s smile and the light in his eyes and lets Hiruma’s movements steer him up to and over the edge into orgasm.

Hiruma laughs as Musashi starts to come, broken sincerity sparkling in his throat and shadowed in his eyes. Musashi feels like he’s coming alight, some part of himself that usually hangs still and quiet bursting into awareness for the span of a few glorious heartbeats, and he thinks this must be what it’s like for Hiruma every day, this hyper-aware clarity, like the whole world is closer or sharper or just more intense. Hiruma lets him linger there for a moment, with the whole sensation of existence rushing through him; then he twists away, collapsing to sprawl over the remaining space on the bed and digging a sharp elbow hard against Musashi’s ribs.

“You should take a shower,” he declares, the bump of his arm rumpling Musashi’s sticky-damp shirt.

Musashi takes a breath, lets it out in a rush; then he moves, rolling away and off the bed so he can retreat to the aching heat of a shower, the rush of unfamiliar scent of hotel soap. By the time he comes back Hiruma has taken over the entire bed, arms and legs spread to take up more space than Musashi would have thought his skinny frame could occupy. He gets a grin as he comes back in, a lazy glint of teeth, and Hiruma compresses as Musashi moves in to offer shower-damp skin for the catch of the blankets. Musashi stretches out over the sheets, bumps his hip in against Hiruma’s knee, and when he reaches out there’s the sweep of a waist to fit under the weight of his arm, sharp edges and unspoken threats eased and softened by alignment with his body.

They’ve never had to try to fit themselves together.


End file.
